


Exercise gives you endorphins, endorphins make you happy

by boobuu



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:51:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8855134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boobuu/pseuds/boobuu
Summary: Goody’s got nothing but time on his hands these days, which is dangerous currency for a man used to a strict routine. The days sprawl out ahead of him, flush at first with the promise of all the things he never had time for before, but alcohol quickly puts a damper on that.———The one where Goody's struggling to figure out what to do with life post-military discharge, and wanders into a gym where Billy coaches.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this is maybe a crossfit AU. uhhhhhhh I don't have any excuses for this, other than to say that sometimes tumblr leads you into a series of bad decisions. and by "bad decisions" I mean "increasingly specific and bizarre AUs."
> 
> All you really need to know is that there are professional crossfit athletes, that's a real thing that really happens.

Goody’s got nothing but time on his hands these days, which is dangerous currency for a man used to a strict routine. The days sprawl out ahead of him, flush at first with the promise of all the things he never had time for before, but alcohol quickly puts a damper on that.

 _’S to be expected, at this point_ , he thinks blearily, staring up at the ceiling. _There’s nothing Goodnight Robicheaux can’t fuck up._

It’s the absence of everything else in his apartment that finally drives him back to sobriety—empty fridge, empty pantry, empty bottles and cans. He knuckles his way out of his last bender, gathers up the bottles and grimaces at the sum total of his misdeeds. Pulls out his phone and looks up the address to the box that Sam recommended, notes their hours.

He still doesn’t have anything resembling a plan, but he figures working out in the meantime can’t hurt. Beats drinking all day, at least.

———

Without the alcohol, he shudders awake at 5 am. He rides out the shakes, listens to the breath rattle through his chest, and then rolls to the ground to do a set of push-ups. Might as well get started.

He flirts a little with the girl at the desk while he fills out the waiver, but she’s coolly professional and the novelty wears off quick. He takes in the set-up of the room, noting the windows and doors as he does.

The coach turns out to be a tiny guy, young-looking: Billy Lim. Goody glances over the whiteboard as Billy runs over the warm-up and the foundation, and relaxes a little, grinning. Looks like he picked the right day to get back into things. Quick and easy.

He’s still trying to peel himself off of the floor when Billy wanders over to loom over him, judgmentally. “How did that weight go for you,” he asks, all fake innocence, like Goody hadn’t shot down all of Billy’s attempts to talk him into something lighter. When Goody just pants back up at him, annoyed, Billy remarks, blithely: “Looks like you didn’t finish. Too bad.”

Goody works his way up to an elbow as Billy walks away, and thinks: _That smug son of a_ bitch.

———

He wakes up again at 5 am the next day, and deliberately does not think about why he’s skipping the 6 am class.

He slinks back into the gym at noon, and realizes quickly that luck’s clearly against him today, if was ever with him at all, because while Billy isn’t _teaching_ the class, he’s in it. 

When the coach asks Billy to demo a handstand walk for the class, Billy pops up immediately and does a pretty little walk down and back the length of the room, dismounting with a completely unnecessary roll that draws scattered applause from amused regulars.

 _This is the opposite of charming_ , Goody thinks. He doesn’t quite manage to believe himself.

For the WOD, Billy uses a higher weight than prescribed and still ends up beating him by two minutes. Billy smirks, quick enough to miss, when he catches Goody watching him afterwards. Goody huffs out a laugh, incredulous, and this time Billy smiles long enough for him to really take it in.

It’s a nice smile.

———

Over the next two weeks, Goody runs into Billy more often than not, more deliberately than not. He notices a few things: first, that Billy Lim is a preening peacock of a human being who’ll never miss an opportunity to show off. It’d be a hell of a lot more annoying if he weren’t so taken in by it, Goody thinks ruefully, watching Billy triple-under for the hell of it. Second, Billy spends all his time at the box, either teaching or working out, cycling through the same sets of near-identical workout clothes day after day. 

And third—Billy is damn good at this, good enough to turn professional. They do a benchmark WOD a week in, and Billy’s time is on par not only with regionals athletes, but Games athletes. But there’s no athlete profile for Billy, no mention of any regionals appearances or even a hint of him getting his certification, which raises alarms.

He stays late most days after class now, and Billy doesn’t look surprised when Goodnight follows him after one of them, used to his chatter by now. ( _It’s good background noise_ , Sam used to say.)

“You could go professional if you wanted, try out for one of the Grid teams or go to regionals. Why haven’t you?”

Billy stares at him a little bit, then shrugs as he unlaces his Chucks. “Expensive.”

And it’s not like Goody hasn’t noticed Billy’s worn gear, compared to the shiny Nanos and slogan-plastered tanks sported by the majority of the members. But, hell, some pros swear by Chucks as their main lifters, and new gear’s no substitute for sheer talent, something Billy’s got in spades: good form, good technique, quick cycle time, and fast as anything.

“Isn’t that just a matter of branding?” Goody asks. Billy furrows his brow, and Goody continues: “Everyone’s sponsored these days.”

Billy snorts at that. “Not really sure I’m exactly what they’d be looking for in an athlete.”

“Don’t sell yourself short now, Billy Lim,” Goody grins, “You’re sure as hell prettier than Fraser or any of the Icelandic girls.” Billy laughs a little at that, mouth curling up in a private smile that Goody favors. “‘Sides, all that really means is that you’re in need of some management. Someone to help you navigate all of that bullshit. And it just so happens that I know someone who doesn’t have a lot else going on right now.”

“Really,” Billy deadpans, eyeing him.

“Let me buy you a drink tonight,” Goody tries, “and we can talk it over. I’m serious.” Goody can almost see Billy turn that idea over in his head and he feels, a little, like they’re on the verge of something important.

“Okay,” Billy says. “It’s a date.”

Goody laughs. He’s not wrong about that.

———

Nothing happens that night, or the night after. They draw up a plan, and even as Goody sweet talks Billy into doing this for real, he gets the sense of a missed opportunity. But he turns his face towards Billy and watches as the other man starts to see himself the way Goody does, the potential there—and the hunger, too. Goody spins his tales pretty enough that both of them end up lashed onto his promise of a better future.

And if that’s the way it goes, then Goody can’t quite bring himself to regret the way things’ve played out. Billy’s too interesting a man to ignore, and this way, Goody gets to see it all firsthand.

Billy starts up a real training regimen, and Goody throws together something like a social media plan, which is how he comes to know all of Billy’s best angles. Turns out that most of them aren’t bad, even the ones that have no business looking as good as they do. Goody’ll catch him in the middle of a lift, when Billy should, by rights, look all red-faced and straining, but instead he just comes off—serene, like he’s staring past the camera somehow.

“It’s uncanny,” Goody complains, trying to find an angle that will hint at multiple chins.

Billy pretends not to hear him from his place at the top of the rig, rolling over the bar once and then kipping back up with fluid ease.

Goody checks his phone and cusses when he plays back the video he took: “Shit, even that turned out good.” He posts it on Instagram, running through the usual hashtags while Billy mutters something unimportant in the background (“Isn’t that supposed to be a good thing?”). 

———

It’s the hashtags that bring them the first wave of followers. Goody uses a wide variety of them indiscriminately at first, starts narrowing it down as he gets a sense of what works and what’s just added noise. Surprisingly, it’s Billy’s background that gets them noticed, and they start getting dozens of new followers, mostly teenage girls, mostly Asian.

Goody doesn’t read all of the comments, and Billy doesn’t check the account at all beyond what Goody relates, but Goody runs some of the Korean past him every now and then, enough to find out that they’re calling Billy an ulzzang.

“It means that someone’s… good-looking,” Billy explains, “attractive.”

Google translates it as ‘best face,’ and Goody doesn’t disagree.

Goody keeps on posting more pictures and they keep on getting more followers and everyone keeps on talking about what an excellent face Billy has, except for Goodnight. He keeps those thoughts to himself.

———

One of the side effects of managing Billy is that Goody’s life cleans itself up gradually, like an afterthought. Goody gets himself back in shape, or close enough, given his injuries. Calls Sam, at first to talk about training plans and to ask how the Sam’s box is getting along, but then to complain about the VA hospital, the transition back to civilian life—and sometimes, at 3 am, just to hear Sam breathing in his ear.

Billy isn’t much of a drinker to begin with, even without the strict diet he’s put himself on, and Goody slowly reins it in. Seems both a touch cruel and depressing to drink by himself in front of Billy, even if that doesn’t stop him outright. 

Empty cans stop crowding his shabby little kitchen table, replaced by blender bottles and free gear from companies looking to strike up some business. “Courting gifts,” Goody calls them, amused, as Billy unwraps the latest pair of wrist wraps or jump ropes.

“I’m not that easily courted,” Billy says, gaze elsewhere, breaking down the packaging with one of Goody’s old utility knives.

“Oh?” Goody tries for a light tone, knows he’s failed when Billy meets his eyes.

“No, Goody,” Billy says carefully, reaching out for his hand. “I’m not.”

Goody lets out a sigh that rushes out of his chest, takes in the look in Billy’s eyes, a little like the one he gets in pictures when he’s in the middle of a hard workout: intense, determined. And then a rush of fondness as Billy stares back at him, reading whatever’s written over his own face.

He pulls Billy in for a kiss, Billy holding onto a blade in one hand and Goody with the other, lap strewn with bubble wrap and cardboard detritus. Billy smiles at him after, slow and sweet.

———

Goody likes being pressed up against the wall and fucked that way, held in place and made small. Despite being about the same size, Billy’s certainly got the advantage when it comes to muscle mass these days, and obliges him whenever possible, digging his hands into Goody’s thighs and dragging Goody down onto his cock as he licks his way up Goody’s throat. Goody digs his shoulder blades into the wall, pulls on Billy’s hair, and wonders how the hell he got lucky enough to stumble into this.

Sometimes, after a particularly grueling workout, when Billy’s sore and wrecked, Goody will pull apart Billy’s legs after a long shower and eat him out until Billy’s wet and whining for Goody’s fingers. Goody likes to wait until Billy’s eyes gloss over, until he’s overwhelmed and begging for it, tired and frantic all at once. And then Goody presses in, calls him sweetheart, gives him everything he asks for until Billy shudders himself apart.

Goody watches Billy every time, mind accustomed to searching out angles and shots, thinking about what will be popular or not. _No one else gets to know how attractive you are like this_ , Goody thinks. The way Billy looks at him is something he gets to keep all to himself.

———

Years later, Goody walks through the arena and finds Billy in an ice tub with Red, both of them half-listening to the strategy Jack’s trying to walk them through before their next event. Goody snaps a picture of the three of them, manages to catch a tired half-smile from Red and a full-on eyeroll from Billy. 

Goody ignores the yelling from behind him as Faraday jumps into a tub of his own, spilling half of the water onto the ground. As Vasquez starts cussing him out, the cameras swing over to catch a piece of their argument, and Goody takes the break to lean over and press a kiss against Billy’s temple.

“Sam says hi,” he grins, as Jack continues to lecture them on their clean and jerk form, and Billy lolls his head back to look up at him.

“Tell me again why I wanted to do this,” Billy asks.

“I haven’t the faintest,” Goody lies.

Billy smiles at him, a little crookedly, and Goody knows they’re gonna be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Look if you want some of the jargon actually explained you can go [here](http://megajubbly.tumblr.com/post/154159964832/crossfit-why). Or ask me questions, hopefully other than "what the hell was this even." (I don't have an answer for this.)


End file.
